I could be dying, but does the Nordic Warrior Queen take it seriously? Of course she doesn’t. Instead she insults me. I guess that’s what thirty years of marriage does to a relationship.

It’s like this. A few months ago, right about the time my employer gave up all pretense of trying to keep me busy, I started to get this…well, this rough patch of skin. On my stomach. It doesn’t hurt, but it might be a tumor, or some weird affliction of my internal organs. It looks like a dead spot.

I showed it to my wife. “It’s just your belt, dear.”

What! That’s all the sympathy I get? “Look at it,” I told her. “It’s not from my belt.”

She rolled her eyes. “Honey, you’re fat. You’ve been sitting in your den for months. Why don’t you take a walk?”

Okay, I might be a little husky, but I am nearly fifty, after all. “What’s your point?”

“Go look in the mirror,” she said. “Your blubber is hanging over your belt.”

“So?”

“So it’s pushing against your belt buckle all day. What do you expect?” Then she suggested I get some sweatpants.